


The Worst Drug

by CaranilNymeria



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: BDSM, Breathplay, D/s undertones, Established Relationship, F/M, I think about Jane Moriarty too much for my own good, Jim Moriarty is a woman, Reichenbach Feels, Reichenbach-Related, Sherlock is an addict
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-12
Updated: 2015-09-12
Packaged: 2018-04-20 10:47:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4784522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaranilNymeria/pseuds/CaranilNymeria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jane Moriarty was better than any drug Sherlock had ever tried in his life, and he had tried many. Her body was simply delicious, yes, and the fact that she was so much shorter than him, but so much stronger, intrigued him terribly, but what had tied him to her so completely were her eyes, large dark pools that the detective was afraid to look at for too long, because he feared he'd be sucked into them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Worst Drug

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to my lovely beta for the quick work, both when it was originally written, back in January, and now for her input in my translation. It was easier writing it than translating it in English, but I love this story so much I felt I had to do it.
> 
> (The original Italian version is here: http://archiveofourown.org/works/5032753 )

Jane Moriarty was better than any drug Sherlock had ever tried in his life, and he had tried many. Her body was simply delicious, yes, and the fact that she was so much shorter than him, but so much stronger, intrigued him terribly, but what had tied him to her so completely was her eyes, large dark pools that the detective was afraid to look into for too long, because he feared he'd be sucked into them.

 

They were utterly and completely empty. The rest of her face moved, expressed emotions - mostly faked, forced and exaggerated - but her eyes didn't. Sometimes, they lit up with the occasional mad ember, when she was busy talking into her phone using codes that were probably encrypted four or five times and that Sherlock was too distracted to decode - he could almost always tell what was the main topic, anyway. Explosions on planes, thefts of drug cargos from cartels that deluded themselves into thinking that they could compete with her, murders of former clients who had let a few words too many slip from their mouths about the  _mysterious woman_  that acted as an intermediary for Moriarty... That was all ordinary business, to Sherlock, who had never deceived himself into thinking he was an hero, and didn't aspire to be one, so he didn't care about the savage crimes that his empty-eyed lover committed.

 

The truth is that he was scared. He knew that, if he wasn't very, very careful, he would fall into those bottomless pits and he would never get out of them again. He thought that the deep fascination he felt towards Jane could be explained by the theory of the  _appel du vide_ , as the French called it: a relationship with her was the most dangerous thing he could ever have, therefore he would always be attracted to it. And everybody knew how terrible Sherlock was at staying away from what he was attracted to.

 

He always stared at her eyes, when he entered her. She widened her eyes slightly, as if she was surprised by the sensation of fullness, by the fact that Sherlock was anything but a virgin, by his ability to always decipher her frequent emoji-only texts - and then she smiled, mysterious and a bit mad, the same smile she had had when she'd told him "Honey, you should see me in a crown," the same smile she wore any time she gave him a new puzzle to solve, now without strapping explosive on innocent bystanders - she didn't need that incentive anymore. She only had to promise him that she'd text him her location, if he solved the puzzle quickly enough.

 

Some time ago, she had told him, with a borrowed voice, that she liked to see him dance. And, even though in their relationship he was the one who held the leash, and she the one who wore the collar, Jane kept on pulling strings, and he kept dancing like an obedient puppet. All she needed was a text with a time and a place, and two x as a signature, and Sherlock ran - he had even stopped answering. He knew that she knew he'd never say no.

 

She was smiling now, too, but now she seemed both calmer and more plagued. They were in Jane's flat in Dublin, they hadn't left it for thirty-six hours, not even for food, and there was something unsaid in the air. Something that felt like a last time.

 

Sherlock was sitting on the sofa, Jane kneeling at his feet, and he had just finished feeding her the last bit of their shared meal. It had been ordered online, since neither of them felt like wasting time on cooking. He grabbed her hair and made her sit on the sofa, stradling him, and then he pressed his hands on her hips, where she already had finger-shaped bruises. Her eyes fluttered close, and she sighed softly, guiding him gently inside of her for the umpteenth time. She opened again those dark pools that, Sherlock was sure, would lead him to his death.

 

"Don't think I won't kill you," Jane whispered, "just because you're such a good fuck, it doesn't mean you don't owe me a fall." She often said things like these, mumbled on his skin, murmured threateningly between moans, when Sherlock's mind was too clouded by pleasure to properly register in Jane's voice a faint note of regret, only there when she reminded him of the only, inevitable ending for their dance on a knife-edge.

 

The man didn't answer, but he moved one of his hands from her hips to press it on her neck. It was the only way to make those eyes less frightening, taking her breath away until they fogged. He counted to twenty, then he released a bit of the pressure, letting her breathe in, and then he squeezed again, whispering into her ear "Come for me,  _a rùn_."

 

He was obeyed instantly, and he had to stop himself from chuckling. The control that Jane had let him take over her body never ceased to amaze him. On the other hand, though, he had repayed her with quite a bit of control over his... heart, maybe?

 

He bit her neck, and thrust into her with enough strenght to make her whine, desperately trying to chase after his own pleasure and to chase away those bad thoughts and that taste of abandon.

 

*

 

Two days later, Sherlock was back in Baker Street. John found a letter sealed with wax, full of breadcrumbs. Two children were abducted. The rest was a vortex of informations and sensations: the offer of help from Molly, she who, as always, had seen his mood even before himself did, the flight with John, their hands cuffed together, Jane who held his gaze the whole time during that staging at Kitty Riley's house, oh, those eyes, so empty, they would haunt him for centuries.

 

Everything ended on the Bart's roof, with a gunshot.

 

The only ending he had never considered: that Jane Moriarty, she who held in her fist the criminal network of the entire London and of most of the world, could be tormented by the appel du vide as much as he was.

 

The tears he wept, on the phone with John, weren't a part of his prepared speech to make his suicide sound convincing. When he fell, he didn't check that the mattress was ready to catch him.

 

*

 

He had, obviously, got a new phone. The only numbers in it were Mycroft's, Molly's and The Woman's. He couldn't risk to contact John, so he had deleted his numbers even from his own memory. 

 

He wandered through London for two hours, the time he had set to say goodbye to the city he loved before his long holiday away. He hadn't done anything but think about Jane. The mark she had on her left shoulder, the only colour on her porcelain skin. Her hair so out-of-place when they last said goodbye to each other, outside her private jet. It felt like centuries ago.

 

A non familiar  _ping_  came from his pocket, just when he was about to wield to the temptation to go find some cocaine.

 

_Unknown number_

_Get some for me too, a rùn._

_Then get on the first flight to Berlin. I'm going to send you a nice little puzzle as soon as you get here, and, if you solve it on time, I'm going to tell you at what hotel I'm staying. If you don't, you're going to have to find me all by yourself, and I'm going to look for the most famous German detective to keep me company. Please hurry. Don't make me fuck a Kraut, you know I don't like them._

**Author's Note:**

> "A rùn" is an Irish endearment.


End file.
